


Dig Down Deep

by saruma_aki



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt Wade, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Shovel Talk, White (Box), Yellow (Box), a bit of blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-16 06:55:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11248623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saruma_aki/pseuds/saruma_aki
Summary: Appearances are deceiving--that was a lesson he learned early on. The appearance of a father when he was an abuser. The appearance of a dutiful soldier when it just made him grin. The appearance of a charming man when he was really there to kill you. The appearance of a monster when he was just another person.He wished his appearance didn't say unfeeling. He wished that wasn't what people assumed.ORI wanted to write some spideypool and I realized I had never done this take on them, so I decided to do so now.





	Dig Down Deep

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, I haven't written spideypool in so long. This was originally born from the idea I had ages of ago of how I always see fics of Wade receiving the "shovel talk" from the Avengers when they find out he's dating Peter, but the ones I've seen don't particularly address how it might impact Wade. And then that plot bunny kind of grew a life of its own and this was born from it. It doesn't exactly follow the original idea I had, but I like how it turned out nonetheless.
> 
> Sorry for any mistakes. I tried to read it over, but I have a concussion, so there might still be some left.

It was a common thing people often forgot as they looked at him. People looked at him, mask or no mask, and saw someone they assumed didn’t feel, assumed didn’t have morals—which he admittedly didn’t have a sociably acceptable moral compass, but he had one—didn’t have goals, dreams, desires, pure intentions, simple wishes. They looked and saw rough skin and assumed his insides were just as rough as his outsides.

And that was fine. It didn’t impact him all that much because people had never been his strong suit. People weren’t particularly attracted to the kid who came to school with an odd limp and bruises mottling his body, who flinched at loud noises and bit the hands of his superiors. People weren’t particularly attracted to a man who would smile while running into the field, like death wasn’t an ever present threat and like the injuries of his comrades were things that could be brushed off. People didn’t particularly find someone who killed for a living and would joke around while doing it appealing. People didn’t find the suit attractive and the scars would make people flee for the mountains—which was quite a feat considering he was typically in a city when he tried to hook up with people.

And then there was Spider-man, the arachnid with the glorious behind—mister ‘moral code’ and ‘responsible’. Wade couldn’t help but be attracted to him. There was just something about him that drew him closer.

But Spider-man was just like the other heroes. He brushed him aside, frowned down on his career, on his actions, on his very personality. And yet Wade couldn’t help but be enticed all the same because Spider-man was everything he wasn’t. He was good, kind, funny in a way that wouldn’t make people yell at him, driven, sane.

“Pay attention, Wilson,” the voice from next to him muttered as he choked on the blood suddenly filling his mouth and he tugged out the knife that had embedded itself in his throat, turning his head and lifting his mask to spit out the mouthful of crimson, the wound stitching itself closed as he rubbed the back of his gloved hand over his lips, tugging his mask back down.

“What was that for?” he whined, but his insides were roiling and his lungs were seizing in his chest to push out the blood, flooding his mouth and forcing him to swallow the metallic tasting liquid. “I’m pretty there’s a rule about not actually harming your sparring buddy,” he sang, wagging his finger at her, throwing the knife at the wall, away from both of them.

“Yeah, but you can heal, so it doesn’t matter,” Natasha countered with a wry grin and Wade was immediately reminded why it was Spider-man was different, why Peter was different from the heroes now.

Spider-man had given him a chance, had taught him how to be a hero when no one else would give him the time of day, and then Spider-man had become Peter and Deadpool had become Wade. Things had developed from there and now they were happily together, had been for six months, but things were different now. Peter was an Avenger and Wade was an honorary one, and with the new titles came people who now were closer and had consequently found out about their relationship.

And that had been fine, but Wade’s insides twisted every time he saw one of the Avengers ever since they found out about three days ago.

“You have to start paying attention, Deadpool,” Natasha hissed, her thighs wrapping around his neck and he felt the crack of bones as they broke and his body slumped down, pain flaring from the wound as his bones quickly healed and he growled, hand lashing out and grasping a warm neck, pinning the woman down, fingers grasping tight at the column, bruising, but he didn’t care.

‘They like hurting you, you know,’ a voice chortled from inside his head and he tilted his head back, feeling the last few bones crack into place.

“Shut up,” he grumbled, his grip loosening and he quickly pulled back, standing and moving away from the redhead only to be shoved flat on his back, the woman on top, and six bullets through his chest.

“I said pay attention,” she spoke, voice hoarse from Wade’s earlier grip, cheeks flushed. “Remember, treat Peter right or there will be a lot more where that came from.” Wade could barely make out her face through the fogginess suddenly clouding his mind, through the radiating pain, body stitching itself back into shape from the inside out, forcing the bullets to ascend through the path they entered as Natasha got up and walked away. “Nice practicing with you, Wilson,” she called back, but he couldn’t answer, breaths labored as blood filled his lungs, as bullets popped out of the holes, the skin sealing itself up.

He wanted to tell her that just because he could heal didn’t mean that the wounds didn’t hurt, but he knew she knew. Everyone knew. But he was still their go to person when it came to training because he could take a hit and heal from it.

“Mr. Wilson, are you alright,” FRIDAY’s voice filled the room and he winced as he pushed himself to sit up, blood spilling from his lips, smearing against the scarred skin of his lips and of his chin, staining the inside of the mask, iron filling his nostrils.

“Peachy,” he croaked, shoving himself to his feet and watching as six metal pills fell onto the mat covered ground, stained red like the mats with his own blood.

‘They like hurting you.’

“I’m assuming that was shovel talk?” he mumbled, ignoring the voices in his head once more, fingering the holes in his suit at the chest and the slit in the neck.

“It would appear so,” FRIDAY responded although Wade hadn’t actually meant for the AI to respond.

“Care to take me up to my floor without any interruptions?” he whispered, whatever shreds of good humor he had left draining as the voices continued in his head, spilling truths all over the inside of his skull, truths he already knew, already lived, already felt.

FRIDAY didn’t respond, but he opened the doors of the lift for him and took him up to his floor without letting anyone else on, and that was fine by Wade. He really just wanted quiet now, anyway.

Quiet sounded really nice right about then.

Heading to the bathroom, he tugged off his mask, tugged off the rest of the suit, and got into the tub, sinking down to sit on the cold white. The gun in his hand that he had grabbed on the way to the bathroom didn’t shake as he took the barrel into his mouth, turned off the safety, and pulled the trigger, the back tile wall stained red.

 

 

 

“Wade,” Peter called and he smiled a bit, tugging on his mask, flopping down on the bed as Peter entered the room with a grin, mask still off so his expression was visible. “You ready to go?”

He grinned, reaching out with his arms and making grabbing motions with his hands until Peter huffed in amusement but came closer, crawling onto the bed and letting himself be pulled against a strong chest. Wade carded his fingers through the male’s hair, mourning his inability to feel the soft texture due to his gloves, but not wanting to take them off, satisfying himself with twisting the odd strand here and there, losing himself in the simple contact.

“Are you okay?” Peter murmured quietly, looking down at him with the same soft look he always did, the same sort of understanding he always possessed for Wade’s odd tendencies that not many people had ever shown when it came to him.

He hummed in response, ignoring the clamor of voices in his head, telling him that ‘of course he wasn’t okay’, the phantom pains making him cringe internally, mixing in with the pain from his skin, making him twitchy and tense. “Aren’t I always?” he responded with instead, but his voice sounded distant to his own ears, not quite there.

“I can go alone today, you know,” Peter murmured, leaning down to let their foreheads rest together. “I’ll be fine, and you know I’ll call you if something happens.”

An unconscious smile pulled the corners of Wade’s lips up and he wriggled against Peter, patting his side as a silent cue for him to get up. “I know, but I have to do something, Petey-pie,” he recited, twisting on the bed dramatically. “It’s so stuffy here,” he whined, rolling onto his belly, giving Peter a pouting look that had the male laughing.

“Alright, then,” Peter laughed, tugging Wade off the bed, grinning at Wade’s high pitched squeal and following comment of ‘such violence—fore shame, Petey, fore shame’. “Come on. We have to go. It’s getting late.”

Of course, Peter gave him a soft kiss in apology before they were off, Wade clinging to Peter’s back as Peter swung them through the city, because Peter was nice and he was different and he knew Wade felt.

 

 

 

“You alright there, Wilson,” Tony called over the comm., and Wade immediately took that as his cue to get the hell out of the room while Barton was distracted, running to the door and all but flinging himself out, twisting to try and see the arrows lodged in his back, grimacing slightly as the action caused sparks of pain to shoot up his spine.

“Haven’t any of these guys heard of playing nice,” he grumbled, trying to get his legs to cooperate as he reached behind himself and tugged out the arrow that was nestled right against his spinal cord and impeding signals from getting to his lower body properly.

He ignored the echo of Barton’s words in his head, the muttering of ‘you don’t deserve him, you know’ as the male shot an arrow at him, the words having been enough to freeze Wade in his place like the time before with Natasha. He tried to block out the hateful words—‘if we find out you’re playing with him’—that assumed he was capable of hurting the man he held so close to his heart.

Stark walked up to him, eyebrows furrowed and his lips pursed. “Looks like he did a number on you,” he commented, frowning slightly.

“He ruined my suit,” he commented dramatically, but Wade could honestly care less about that part. He cared more about the fact that he once more walked out of that damn training room with injuries that would’ve killed anyone else without his opponent so much as thinking that it was painful.

“You should fix that before Peter gets back,” Stark mumbled, but he sounded distracted, eyes focused on the arrows that were slowly falling one by one as the healing inside forced them out, a small stream of red following their clattering, somewhat unnoticeable against the red of his suit.

‘You really should. He’ll be worried.’

**‘He’ll be furious, more like, if he ever finds out.’**

‘He’s so good to us.’

“Yeah, probably,” he responded, stretching his arms over his head as the last few arrows fell out, his skin stitching itself closed, but the pain remained, flashing and burning, his nerves firing an array of messages his brain didn’t want to keep receiving.

Maybe he’d use a knife this time to get the silence he wanted. But the knife was tricky. He wanted the silence to come quickly.

“Later, baconator,” he called over his shoulder as he sauntered away, trying not to think about how there was practically no way he would get this suit stitched up by the time Peter got home. He wouldn’t be able to go on patrol with him tonight. He didn’t want to leave Peter out there alone, though. He couldn’t lose him. Peter was good, and kind, and different. Peter cared about him, about how he felt, about what he liked and what he disliked, about what he wanted to do.

**‘He’s too good for us.’**

 

 

 

Peter walked into the oversight room the day Wade was supposed to train with Thor. Tony came in after him, both of them talking about a project Peter was working on, but Peter trailed off the second he heard Wade’s voice releasing a foul slew of words.

Running to the window, he bit back a gasp of horror at the sight of Wade, kneeling on the ground, the bone in his thigh sticking out, blood steadily leaking out, and Thor not looking like he was planning on letting up, blonde hair flying around him as he swung his hammer again, Wade barely managing to roll out of the way.

“What the hell is up with that?” he couldn’t help but yell, feeling his throat closing up, eyes wide with horror as he watched Wade shove the bone back into his thigh with his grunt, forcing himself to his feet and stumbling to the side to avoid one of Thor’s blows, managing to duck before the backswing could hit him either.

“That is what I’d like to know,” Tony muttered, hurrying over to the comm., about to call something over, but Wade was already straightening, his leg healed, and nimbly moving out of Thor’s reach, holding up a hand.

“This has been fun and all, but I kind of need to go,” Wade called over to the blonde god.

“You are done so soon, Pool of Dead?”

“Prior engagement—you know the shtick. Sorry,” Wade laughed, moving quickly to the door, Thor’s message of understanding barely leaving him before the door closed behind Wade. Peter met Thor’s gaze as the blonde god looked up at the room, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“Was it something I did?”

Peter sighed, running out of the room and hurrying to the elevator to meet Wade up in his room, where the male undeniably went to, feeling jittery and twitchy as he waited impatiently for the elevator to slowly take him up to the floor.

“Wade,” he called, feeling panic fill him when there was no answer, but then the scarred man was rounding the corner, looking confused as to what Peter was doing there, already out of his suit and with a small towel held in his hand that was tinged a light red and wet.

“Hey, baby boy,” Wade greeted, but it lacked its usual brightness and Peter immediately hurried closer, concern clear on his features.

“Are you alright?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Wade,” Peter whispered, reaching out and taking Wade’s hand, the one with the towel, gently pulling away the cloth and holding the hand, reaching out with the other and wiping away the still wet blood on the male’s thigh even though the wound was closed.

“Oh,” Wade mumbled, his voice sounding choked.

Peter just tugged him closer into a hug in response.

 

 

 

Wade had always gotten along with Steve—sort of.

Rogers didn’t like that he cursed, but there was a degree of understanding between them born from how they came to be who they were now in the superhero world. There was that understanding, but there was also a sort of disconnect between them because of it.

Wade wasn’t like Steve. He hadn’t been good before the cancer. He had been a mercenary. He killed for a living. He hadn’t been an angel who would jump on a grenade for no good reason other than some idealistic sense that he had to protect everyone even when they were good and clear of the potential blast. He was a gun for hire, killed without mercy, accepted the money without guilt.

Wade knew his strengths and his weaknesses where Steve did not. He understood how easily he could kill a person where Steve was seemingly hopelessly oblivious. He knew how easily he could hurt someone where Steve didn’t realize he could. It caused a rift between them that they would likely never fill because they were too different, but similar all the same—Wade acknowledging everything no sane person would want to think of.

But despite that, Wade still felt a kinship with the man, a connection. He felt that maybe there was that potential to be friends, even if distant ones, because Steve was good and kind and a staple of America and America was supposed to be the land of the free and home of the brave, so Steve had to encompass that somehow. Of course, in reoccurring moments of naïve optimism, the ugliness of America never passed through his mind when thinking of Steve.

At least, that was, until today.

“Just because you’re an enhanced individual, Wilson, doesn’t mean that you’re somehow better than Peter.”

The ugliness of America that was their idea that only they knew how respond to things correctly and that they were always right.

He could only blink, whatever connection he had felt with Steve slowly severing, his stomach roiling as the blonde man talked, the muscle in his jaw twitching, throat working as he tried to think of words to get out, of something to say, but nothing arose in the cacophony of noises that went on in his head, Rogers’ words somehow making it through the chaos clear as a bell.

“I don’t want to see him hurt,” Steve continued, and Wade wanted to smack him, wanted to yell, wanted to march out of there, but he was frozen where he sat. “And if you hurt him, you know that there will be pay back.”

‘Wow, no one cares about us getting hurt do they?’

**‘Why are you shocked about that?’**

‘Huh, I don’t actually know.’

Wade gritted his teeth, pushed back the burn in his eyes, forced his limbs to move, to push himself to his feet. He didn’t want to listen to this again. He didn’t want to be subjected to more shovel talk. He understood why it was people in movies tended to run away after the shovel talk. It wasn’t fun, it wasn’t comforting to know Peter had people looking after him, it wasn’t intimidating. It was just hurtful.

“Wilson, listen to me. I know that you’re trying to be good.”

**‘Well, he got that right. We’re trying.’**

‘It’s not very fun, though.’

**‘But Peter wouldn’t like it if we killed.’**

‘And he deserves the best.’

“But you have to consider your past. You’re trying, but you were once a man who killed people for money.”

**‘We also used to sleep with people for money.’**

‘Although we never saw that money.’

**‘We should’ve taken that money before we lit the place up.’**

He wanted them to be quiet. He wanted silence. He wanted Steve to shut up, he wanted Yellow to shut up, White to shut up. Why couldn’t they all be quiet? Everything had been fine before them. Everything had been great. He hadn’t taken a metal pill between his lips as often in the last six months than he had in the last three days.

They were hurting him.

He didn’t want to hurt.

He wanted Peter.

He wanted Peter who understood he felt, who understood that his insides and his outsides were sensitive and that he felt everything.

He could feel the tension build in his muscles, tried to differentiate the voices in his head from his own.

“I’d do you for free,” he got out, voice a sing-song melody even though it sounded bitter to his ears, even though it made an acrid taste flood his mouth, even though it made him want to slice out his vocal chords because it would mean one less noise.

It was a small relief to realize that he had already walked out of the room before the words had slipped his mouth.

A foul part of him wished he had actually said them to Steve’s face.

**‘Peter deserves better.’**

 

 

 

“Where are you going?” Peter mumbled, pulling his face free from the warmth of the pillow to look up at Wade’s shuffling form, the way he was fiddling around with something in a bag a few feet away.

“Nowhere,” he responded, but his voice was hoarse and he was still rummaging. “I’ll be right there in a second,” he added, fingers pushing through all the weapons and metal.

“What are you looking for?”

“Pills,” he mumbled back, and Peter groaned softly as he stretched his limbs before slipping out from under the covers.

“Didn’t you say you ran out?”

Wade shook his head, fingers digging a bit more frantically through the weapons. “No, no, I had enough for one more dose—one more, one more,” he raked his fingers through, not even startling as Peter asked FRIDAY to turn up the lights, feeling a bit frantic, “one more, one more, one more, one more.”

“Are they in the bathroom,” Peter whispered, reaching out to brush the backs of his knuckles over the exposed skin of Wade’s shoulder and watched how he shuddered just slightly at the soft contact, how his muscles twitched under his skin and his scars seemed to shiver.

“I don’t know—don’t know, don’t know, don’t know, don’t know, don’t know—fuck,” Wade mumbled, his hands shaking a bit, fingers lingering too long on the guns, and Peter hesitated to initiate more contact with the male in fear of making it worse, but knew he had to move Wade away from the bag, away from the wrong sort of relief.

“Go to the bed, Wade. I’ll find them for you,” he coaxed, letting his hands hover just above Wade’s skin to show he was there but not making things more painful. Wade shuddered, eyes wide and lips trembling, but he slowly pulled himself away from the bag, letting Peter’s gently guiding hands show him to the bed. “FRIDAY, where are Wade’s pain killers?”

“I have located them in the couch,” FRIDAY responded simply, and Peter hurried out of the room, lifting the couch cushions to the find the bottle in the crevice of the couch, snatching it and hurrying back to the room.

“Wade, look at me,” he urged, grabbing his water bottle on the bedside table. He shook out the three remaining pills in the bottle—Wade had been right. There had only been enough left for one more dosage. “Here you go—open up,” he whispered, dropping the pills past his lips and dribbling the water in, watching Wade swallow.

He stayed crouched on the bed, looking at Wade worriedly, watching as one by one his muscles relaxed before he finally slumped completely on the bed, letting out a shaking breath.

“Better?”

Wade hummed in response, reaching out his hand to gently curl his fingers around Peter’s wrist, tugging him closer and softly asking FRIDAY to turn down the lights, wrapping his arms around Peter and tucking his face in the crook of his neck.

And Peter simply let out a soft breath, relieved that Wade was pain free for at least a short while, curling closer and letting his fingers draw soft hearts upon Wade’s scarred skin.

 

 

 

“I heard you need more pain killers,” Tony commented when Wade walked into the lab with Peter, and he tried not to cringe, tried not to curl up on himself, tried to not do anything that would indicate his discomfort. “Bruce hasn’t quite finished the whole batch, but he has some from the emergency kit if you want to take some now,” the engineer continued on.

**‘I like these two.’**

‘Hulk’s scary, though.’

**‘But not Brucie-poo! He’s a sweetheart. And you can’t hate your drug lord.’**

“You can’t call him a drug lord. He doesn’t like it,” he mumbled as he shuffled further into the room, shoving his hands into his pockets, feeling naked without his mask, but the material was bothering his skin and he honestly didn’t feel like covering up more than necessary at the moment. Ignoring Tony’s slight frown, he hunched his shoulders up a bit. “So, emergency ones,” he mumbled, fingers twitching slightly, lips pursing tightly, leaning back into the reassuring pressure of Peter’s hand on the small of his back.

Tony nodded, moving to go get the bottle of emergency pain killers, handing them to Wade and watching with a small frown as he shook out three, downing them dry, closing the bottle and handing it back with a small smile that showed a bit of his gratitude.

He could practically feel the drug working its way through his system, numbing his firing nerve endings momentarily, giving him a small reprieve from the constant pain without needing a bullet between the eyes.

‘Peter doesn’t like it when we do that.’

“Hey, so I was looking at designing a solo training regimen for you,” Tony started, making Wade blink, muscles twitching alive with tension in an instant. Peter looked over at him concern, rubbing his thumb soothingly over the small of his back, providing comfort where he could.

**‘Did he just say solo?’**

“I think he did,” he mumbled, unable to help the fact that he was gawking a bit. Did Peter talk to him or something? Did he mention the session he saw? What was going on?

“Peter was helping me out with it since he knows your fighting style better than I do. I thought I’d run it by you since you’re here. After all,” he continued, looking back at Wade, “it’s not like team sessions are doing you any good.”

“We want you to be safe here,” Peter whispered to him, pressing their shoulders together. “I want you to be safe here.”

Wade wasn’t one for crying—mainly because if he cried over everything that made him want to, he’d never stop—but he couldn’t stop the tears from escaping, one by one sliding down his cheeks until his shoulders were hunched and he was full on sobbing, head bowed forward, leaning into Peter’s warm embrace, feeling all kinds of warm because Peter understood that he felt.

And he had made Tony understand that he felt.

And it made him feel so much more.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to find me on instagram ( @saruma_aki ) or on tumblr ( saruma-aki ).
> 
> Let me know what you thought in the comments below! <3


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